Paris, My Sweet Page 9

  Kee Ling Tong was one of my favorite chocolatiers in New York. Years earlier, I had a fleeting addiction to her otherworldly crème brûlée truffle, a dainty yet dangerous homemade bonbon that you have to pop into your mouth whole, or suffer the consequences of squirting eggy custard all over your blouse. Now, I discovered, she was handcrafting macarons in wild and wonderful flavors like blood orange, sesame, and rose. How did she create her recipes? What inspired her expanded repertoire? And how did hers compare to Paris’s best?

  Emboldened as I was by my new French history lessons, I asked Kee in her Soho boutique: why macarons?

  “Because they’re so pretty!” Kee laughed. “They’re so dainty. I think it’s the colors.” And, standing as we were above the glass display case, I had to agree. Her blueberry macarons were as bright as the September sky. The lotus flower was the kind of soft pink that’s the perfect shade of blush. Kee’s favorite flavor, passion fruit, was a snappy corn husk yellow. These were surrounded by greens (lulo and jasmine green tea) and purples (lavender, which was dotted with purple sugar crystals) and some neutral shades as well (white truffle oil and mint mocha).

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right. It’s like an edible rainbow.” As I was admiring the colors, Kee slid two of the jasmine green tea macarons across the counter, one to me and one for another customer, who had entered the closet-sized boutique with a big bouquet of helium balloons. “Oh, thanks!” I said, delighted for the nibble. “Aren’t you going to have one?” I joked.

  “I don’t like sweets,” Kee responded.

  “You don’t like sweets?” I stared. “How can that be?”

  She shook her head, gesturing to the two displays, the one filled with the pretty macarons and another case that had over a dozen varieties of dark chocolate bonbons. “I don’t eat any of the chocolates or macarons—I only try them when I’m creating new flavors and need to taste them.”

  “Wow, that’s incredible.” I pondered this while crunching into the semi-chewy shell of the macaron. The ganache in the cookie’s middle was less generous than those made in Paris but the balance between herbal and floral flavors was nice. “I’m jealous. If I didn’t eat sweets, I’d be ten pounds lighter.”

  The other customer, a young Chinese guy, was listening to all of this with a small smile. “Do you come here a lot?” he asked me curiously.

  “I’ve been coming here since—when did you open, Kee? In, like, 2003?”

  Kee looked up at the ceiling, doing the math in her mind. “2002. June of 2002.”

  “Yeah, because I was working near here then. I remember my boss coming back from lunch one day and insisting I come here. He said it was the best chocolate he’d had in New York.” I was answering the young man as much as letting Kee know that she had long-running loyalty in town. I loved that she had ditched her career in finance—which she began with a JP Morgan internship at the age of sixteen—when she realized “it wasn’t fun anymore.” It takes a strong woman to survive fifteen years in the finance industry, but a brave one to leave it. I would support her if she was pedaling bubble gum on the corner of West Broadway and Houston.

  “What’s your favorite chocolate?” he asked me.

  “That’s a good question.” I stepped over to the case he was perusing. “Well, I’m a sucker for praline, so I don’t think you can go wrong there, with the hazelnut praline,” I pointed. I couldn’t help but admire the beautiful sheen that all of her chocolates had; Kee was a master at tempering. “Mmmmm, otherwise, I’d stick to the fruit flavors since Kee loves fruit: kaffir lime, passion fruit, pineapple-lychee,” I pointed to each. “The flavors just pop in your mouth.” I was suddenly a budding salesgirl.

  Before the customer had come in, Kee and I had been talking about her technique for creating fresh fruit purees for her macarons’ ganache fillings. She was constantly experimenting with new flavors and added to the repertoire every couple of months. She had started with five and was up to twenty-two flavors, which she rotated, offering eight to twelve at any particular time. “People are adventurous—they want to try something different,” she explained, which was why she focused on pairings instead of individual flavors. But I didn’t have the heart to tell her that ginger-peach was a far cry in adventurous eating from the fig and foie gras macaron that Pierre Hermé offered. I didn’t want to squelch her devotion to the French treats in any way, and I was also trying to keep my “Parisian pride” in check.

  Kee slid the box of chocolates, wrapped in rattan, to the young man. “Your friend is going to love the chocolates,” I told him, suddenly feeling my loyalty to Kee extending in a fierce wave to all of New York. “It’s a birthday gift, right?” I asked, looking up at the balloons. He nodded. “Yeah, trust me. They’re New York’s finest.”

  I had double- and triple-checked that AJ’s flight had landed and was looking forward to our dinner that night. As the day wore on, I was admittedly still wrapping my head around the fact that it would be a party of three.

  “Bonjour!” A beaming man stepped forward to hug me hello when I entered Pó, the Carroll Gardens restaurant AJ had chosen for that night. I stole a quick look at his warm green eyes and hugged him back, already feeling a connection. Mitchell had lived in Paris for five years, and it was immediately clear our shared love for the city, not to mention AJ, was going to be the centerpiece of our bonding. I instantly relaxed and felt grateful for the sweet welcome.

  Then I turned to AJ, who had chopped her blond hair into a bob and was waiting for her turn to greet me. “Bonjour, Madame!” she sang out, the same way we often greeted each other since Madame Snitkin’s French class, freshman year of high school. We kissed on both cheeks and rocked back and forth, hugging. It was a slightly surreal scene—greeting my best friend at an Italian restaurant in Brooklyn, after I had been in Paris and she in Dubai—but it was also strangely appropriate. Every time I was with AJ, I realized, everything felt normal.

  The three of us were soon settled at our table with a bottle of celebratory prosecco, launching into hours of conversation. We lingered over creamy white bean dip, fresh tomato bruschetta, homemade gnocchi, and tuna seared to perfection—something the French, with all of their culinary prowess, hadn’t quite mastered. It was all so delicious: the company, the conversation, and the food. Most important, though, I was relieved. I liked this guy, Mitchell.

  “It’s going to happen to you, Aim,” AJ said earnestly when just the two of us were sitting outside, sharing latte macchiatos the next day in Nolita. As her best friend, it was obligatory that I give her new boyfriend a glowing review, which I could thankfully do in good faith. Mitchell was a great guy, and AJ was seriously happy. “I mean, it really does happen when you least expect it.”

  Ugh—and there it was: that tired expression dished to every single girl in America, ad nauseam. And AJ put it out there. I knew it was her job to pump me up, but why did my partner in crime have to use this cliché? The older I got, the more people said it to me. And at thirty-six, I was hearing it way too often. I swallowed a wave of irritation, determined to focus on the moment, on the positive. Here we were, after twenty-five years of dating hijinks, broken hearts, secret crushes, passionate flings, conflicted feelings, and unrequited loves, both in love-filled places: she with Mitchell, me with Paris.

  “Oh, I know. It will happen.” I paused, letting my defensive, knee-jerk response soften a little with AJ. “At least I think it will.”

  “It will, Amy,” she responded emphatically. “Of course it will. It’s all about timing.”

  “I know, I know,” I trailed off, pondering my romantic past. From my first love in high school, I had gone straight into a four-year relationship at college. When school and the affair ended, I moved to San Francisco, and it was barely a year before I met and started dating Max. And when he and I finally parted ways seven years later, it was only a few months before I succumbed to Eric’s charms, alternately enjoying and refusing them, pushing him away and punishing him for wanting too much, too
soon. We endured three years of yo-yo dating, with him wanting so badly to make the relationship work and me wanting so badly…to be single.

  I nearly laughed out loud now, thinking how deeply I’d been wallowing in my singlehood lately. For so long, I had wanted to just live as the strong, independent girl I felt at my core. Now I thought that I had maybe tossed away my last opportunity to be with a sane, willing, and attractive man. “It’s just that it’s been forever. And, you know, I’m thirty-six now. Everyone I’m into is already married. With a baby. It’s not exactly the best age to be single. I mean, I’m thirty-six—what the fuck? How did this happen? Of course everyone is married. My mom was getting divorced when she was my age. I think that’s what I have to do now: just wait for everyone to start getting divorced.”

  AJ was looking at me with a mix of sympathy and humor. “Aim, gimme a break. You’re beautiful, smart, talented, funny—any guy would be so lucky to date you. I mean, you’re living in Paris! You’re so cool!”

  “Ugh, whatever. I wasn’t looking for a pity party,” I said, the echo of her last words making me feel both proud and freaked out. “I mean, thank you, as always, for your kind words. But I’m sort of over thinking and talking about it.” And it was true. I was tired of dissecting my single status. Everyone in New York kept asking me about the men in Paris—Were they flirtatious? Good kissers? Did they all sport moustaches and berets?—and I had absolutely nothing to report. I’d had a couple drunken make-out sessions in my six months, but not one single date. I didn’t even have a crush on anyone. I felt old, shriveled up, and invisible. “Let’s talk about something else.” I changed the subject. “When are you going to come back to Paris? I found a good place where we can go dancing.”

  I squeezed in as many of these heartfelt, honest, and cathartic conversations with AJ as I could in my remaining days in New York. But I also had to share her time with her new love. So much had changed since I had been gone, and not just certain restaurants losing their cachet or macaron cafés rising from nothing like properly whipped egg whites.

  As I packed up for my return to Paris, I realized it was time to let go of New York for a while. That all the things I had always loved about the city still existed, but, after having lived abroad, I had a new perspective on them. Perhaps less kind and forgiving. It was a little alienating, and more than a little heartbreaking, to realize that everyone and everything was moving on (and moving to Brooklyn) without me. But it was also okay. Now I had Paris.

  More Sweet Spots on the Map

  Just as Parisians are in the midst of a cupcake frenzy, New Yorkers are scooping up macarons like there’s no demain. For flavors as inventive as Pierre Hermé’s, try DessertTruck Works on the Lower East Side, which offers seasonal varieties like butternut squash and blackberry and Maker’s Mark. Beautiful classics—lemon, salted caramel, pistachio—can be found nearby at Bisous Ciao. You can trot yourself around to any of the French masters, like François Payard, Bouchon Bakery, and La Maison du Chocolat. But best of all, you can see what all the French fuss is about: Ladurée made its New York debut in the summer of 2011.

  Because the precious little double-decker bites of joy are so iconic in Paris, it goes without saying that you’ll see them everywhere, not just at the powerhouses Pierre Hermé and Ladurée. I never really sampled the ones at the neighborhood boulangeries, but I did find macaron heaven at Jonathan Blot’s Acide in the 17e, Arnaud Delmontel in the 9e, and, once again, Jean-Paul Hévin in the 1er (the man can do no wrong in my book).

  For months, I had been positively gushing about life in Paris: how charming the square-shaped trees were and how exquisite the gold-tipped ironwork; how graceful the seventeenth-century hôtel particuliers and enviable the French women’s legs; how sweet the strawberries and how divine the wine. I think you could say I’d been prattling on ad nauseam about how everything in Paris was just…perfect.

  As if.

  After my visit to New York, accompanied as it was with my obnoxious “everything’s better in Paris” attitude, karma caught up with me. Sure, my new home was beautiful and romantic and lovely and amazing, with delicious boulangeries and pâtisseries filled with delicately dreamy viennoiserie and gâteaux on each and every corner.

  But it was also frustrating as hell.

  For my new Parisian life, sadly, wasn’t always spent sipping champagne on Ogilvy’s rooftop with its prime views of the Eiffel Tower and l’Arc de Triomphe. Nor did every day contain a blessed visit to a sleek new chocolatier where three-tiered fountains spouted molten cocoa for all. In fact, since summer turned to fall, the fantasy faded. Just as I had felt like a foreigner a few weeks ago in New York, being back in Paris made me hyperaware of a giant cultural divide. I was surprised—and, oui, a little hurt—to see that my new love did in fact have faults. And I didn’t like the taste of things to come.

  My return from New York in September coincided with la rentrée—a time of magical new beginnings in Paris that’s like “back to school” in the States, only bigger and more profound. Beyond just kids getting new pencil boxes and corduroys after a summer of catching fireflies and building campfires, it’s the season of renewal. Change is embraced and celebrated by every proud citizen; it’s a feted homecoming for the entire city that is returning to work after spending August frolicking à la plage—unless, of course, they were like me and the Louis Vuitton team, who toiled not only the entire sacred heat-filled month, but every weekend of it too.

  To be fair, disillusionment started creeping in before my New York visit and la rentrée to Paris. Summer had barely kicked off when Vuitton announced they wanted a new website—a major undertaking—and they were also opening the opportunity up to other agencies. We would continue to do their existing digital advertising, but we’d also have to defend the account and prove ourselves worthy of the additional project. In other words, we were in pitch mode. Au revoir, summer.

  But we weren’t just called upon to defend our work (and honor)—we did it gagged and blindfolded. On our knees, with our hands tied behind our backs. For the very same day I learned about the pitch, Fred, the creative director who recruited me and brought me over to Paris, announced he was packing up his home and family and moving to New York himself. He was out of there. Ogilvy’s worldwide creative director subsequently bounced back and forth between New York and Paris all summer to help fill the void, but it was still a devastating loss. Personally, it felt weird that the guy who was, in effect, responsible for my being in Paris was leaving so soon after my arrival. And on the work front, I couldn’t help but think the creative director’s departure didn’t bode well for our chances of winning the Louis Vuitton relaunch.

  I think it’s fair to say I felt jilted by all this un-Gallic behavior. My visions of canal-side picnics in August were cruelly dashed, to say nothing of the chocolate éclairs heavy with custard, the buttery brioches that begged to be pinched and devoured, and raspberry tarts with their plump berries perfectly fanned out across precious beds of crème pâtissière and moist pâte sablée crusts that would have to go untasted while I was at the office.

  I mean, sure, it was fun and sexy to write about supple leather handbags and glittery cruise collections designed for fabulous jet-setters who needed wardrobes for their two-week romps in St. Bart’s and Gstaad. It was exciting to dream up new ways of bringing the luxury brand’s rich and impressive 155-year-old history to life in ways never envisioned. It’s true—working on an account like Louis Vuitton is the stuff copywriters kill (and, worse, backstab!) for. But even so, I’d opt for the relatively modest pleasure of biting into a piping hot Nutella crepe out on boulevard Saint-Germain over drafting clever headlines any day of the week. Especially a Saturday or Sunday.

  Luckily, I had squeezed in some trips back in May and June. In fact, May is riddled with national holidays in France and the way they fell on the calendar that year meant three long weekends in one month. I took full advantage.

  My first journey outside the city was when Michae
l and I road-tripped to the Loire Valley, spending two days touring chateaux and sipping Vouvray, the local sparkling wine. Then I took a solo trip to Biarritz, a kickass beach town near the border of Spain that’s known for its big waves and surf tournaments. Though I can barely swim, I love the salty air and laidback vibe of coastal towns and Biarritz proved to be both mellow and sophisticated. On one of the days, I went to the town’s incredible marché—another French orgy of bread, cheese, pastries, fruit, vegetables, wine, meat, and seafood—and bought a beautiful hunk of pain aux céréales (fresh, dense multigrain bread), brebis (a local sheep’s milk cheese), and strawberries (so sweet) so I could picnic on the beach while watching the surfers. The other days were spent sampling regional sweets like the gâteau Basque and pâte d’amandes. The former was a dry, circular shortbread cake filled with cherry preserves, the latter, basically marzipan. It came in infinite flavors, from raspberry to lemon to pine nut to chocolate, and was sometimes sliced and packaged like chocolate bars, and sometimes cut into bite-sized pieces, rolled in sugar and sold in bags like bonbons. It was delicious both ways.

  And in June, Melanie, one of my single girlfriends from New York, met me for a week on the Côte d’Azur. We explored breathtaking mountain villages and seaside trails, walking up hills and down crooked streets. We sauntered along the famous croisette, or waterfront boulevard, in Cannes and overindulged in fresh fish and creamy gelato in the old town of Nice. We wore bikinis and sundresses and danced on tables and drank Pastis. By the end of the week, I felt as young and free as a college student again. Every trip I took made me fall more in love with the French countryside, and it seemed just plain cruel that I couldn’t spend the entire summer enjoying foreign escapades.